


Damned fingers

by mystrademydivision (jamesraoulsilva)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established, M/M, One-Shot, guitar-playing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesraoulsilva/pseuds/mystrademydivision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft wants to learn how to play the guitar.<br/>Greg is infinitely patient with Mycroft, who wants to put the blasted thing down after a few minutes because “I'll never get this right.” “Shush, you twit. You're doing great for the first time playing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damned fingers

**Author's Note:**

> So, hi. I'm mystrademydivision from tumblr and this is my first Mystrade fic, so I apologise for any ooc-ness. I'm not British and it's not beta'ed, so I also apologise for any spelling errors. I hope you enjoy!

Mycroft puts his cutlery on his plate and wipes his mouth with his handkerchief. “That was lovely, Gregory.”

It wasn't a hard meal to make – pasta with some greens and a great sauce – but it was quite appetizing and Mycroft really appreciated the effort of a real home-cooked meal.

Greg takes his last mouthful, chews and swallows before grinning at the man opposite of him. “T'was my pleasure, dear.” He stands up, takes their plates and plants a kiss on Mycroft's hair before walking to the sink to do the dishes.

Mycroft quickly stands up, with a frown forming. “You don't have to do the dishes, you cooked.”

Greg, who's running hot water from the tap, burns his fingers and hisses, pulling his hand back quickly. He then shrugs and says, “I don't mind. If you feel better helping me, you can dry.” He shoots a grin over his shoulder and catches Mycroft's frown deepening. “Jus' kidding. Go ahead, save the world, I'll quickly do this and make tea.”

Mycroft affectionately runs a hand through Gregory's hair (rewarding him with a smile) before retreating to the living room of Greg's flat. If he was at his own Kensington flat he would have gone to his luxuriously furnished study with its grand desk and comfortable chairs. However, Mycroft had to admit to himself he liked 'working' (as if he could _really_ work, with Gregory within the reach of his fingertips) on the IKEA couch just as much.

He swings his legs up the sofa, a rare liberty he allows himself only in Gregory's company, and whips out his phone to answer some urgent emails and delegates some of the less urgent to Anthea. A few minutes later he smells dish soap and Greg, who's smiling inwardly at Mycroft sitting like that, appears with a steaming mug of tea – milk, no sugar, 'I am on a diet, Gregory.' He puts it down on the low table in front of Mycroft.

Seeing as Mycroft is still engrossed in his work, Greg decides to pick up his guitar and sits down in an armchair across from the couch. Only as he starts playing a few chords, Mycroft looks up, almost disturbed, and says, “oh, thank you,” nodding at the tea. Greg acknowledges him with a quick smile and continues playing.

He tries to improvise a bit but can't get anything to work out very well, so he resorts to playing an easy-going, soothing melody which he knows Mycroft loves. And yes, sure as eggs, after a few chords Mycroft recognises the song and looks up, smiling, his phone forgotten in his lap.

Mycroft watches Greg play – it's one of his favourite sights, the grey-haired man's expression of combined focus and joy, his fingers gracefully dancing from fret to fret. After a while, Greg's pink tongue slips out between his lips, just a little bit, in concentration. Mycroft'd rather die than admitting that he finds it terribly endearing. Suddenly Greg looks up and catches him staring. He smiles at Mycroft, his eyes crinkling up in the corners and his eyes are twinkling. Mycroft can't do anything but smile back.

“Among the fields of barley.” Greg's singing along with the refrain and Mycroft feels very special. Greg has confessed to him he doesn't like singing in front of people, because he feels he's never good enough. It had taken Mycroft a good amount of reassuring and _pleading_ before he felt comfortable enough around the other man to sing.

He clears his throat and asks, “could you perhaps teach me how to play the guitar?” _I would very much like to play it and think of you_ , he thinks and does not say. “Of course!” is the compliant response.

Greg gets up and waits in front of the couch until Mycroft removes his legs, before handing him the guitar and sitting down next to him. Mycroft gingerly accepts it and respectfully lets his fingers glide over the polished, shining wood. 

Greg takes Mycroft's untouched mug and drinks half, before handing the mug with its remaining content to Mycroft who wryly purses his lips before finishing it. Greg just smiles that  _damned_ smile of his and, distractingly, licks his lips.

“Okay,” Greg softly says. “You strum with your right hand, you hold your fingers like this-” he demonstrates, putting his thumb and first two fingers together “-like you would hold a plectrum.”

He shifts closer and despite the fact that, obviously, they have touched each other countless times, Mycroft still suppresses a shiver only with difficulty as he feels their legs brush, and Greg puts his hand over his own to help him with his left hand. He continues explaining where to put his fingers for the right chords.

He is infinitely patient with Mycroft, who wants to put the blasted thing down after a few minutes because “I'll never get this right.” “Shush, you twit. You're doing great for the first time playing.”

When he can play the first part of the melody he loves so much, a rare smile of pride breaks through on his face and Greg compliments him. Despite how much he's enjoying it (after all) he states, “Gregory, my fingers are starting to hurt.”

Greg chuckles. “Yeah, it's 'cause you haven't got callus on your fingers. They've gone really raw,” he takes Mycroft's left hand, “you've such soft hands.”

Mycroft leers at him. “I do not know whether that is a compliment or you're calling me out on my skin-care.”

“Both, you wazzock.” He shifts even closer, pulling the collar of Mycroft's shirt down with one finger and kisses the skin between his neck and shoulder. This time Mycroft cannot suppress a shiver getting sent down his spine. “Admit it Gregory, you would hate it if I would not spend a, I admit, quite horrendous amount of time using products for my skin.”

Gregory takes the guitar from Mycroft and puts it against the sofa, then brings Mycroft's left index finger to his lips before mumbling, “... yeah.” He kisses his raw and red fingers until he feels Mycroft's other hand on his neck and the man's lips on his own.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Song that is referenced to is "Fields of Gold" by Sting.
> 
> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed, and feedback and (constructive) criticism is ALWAYS welcome! Cheers, mystrademydivision.


End file.
